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A long time ago, there lived a man named 

Vincent. Vincent was a painter, and as a 

painter, he saw things differently than other 

people. 

While some people saw the night sky as mere 

darkness with a few bright dots, Vincent saw 

something much more beautiful. He could see 

the blues and the greens in the sky that no 

one else could see, the orange color of the 

stars, the way they seemed to dance above his 

head at night. 

Other people looked at a field of flowers and 

saw their lovely blue petals and the green 

stems. Vincent saw much more. To him, the 

green stems bent forward so the flowers could 

wave hello. They were blue, yes, but also 

slightly purple and others so pale they were 

almost white. 

A cafe in the nighttime to some people is a 

boring place. It's emptiness is frightening or 

not worth noticing. That is not what Vincent 

saw. When he looked at the cafe in his village 

late in the evening, he saw the colors and the 

vibrancy of it all. He saw the way people would 

talk about their lives together and the way the 

stars lit up the night. 

It was a world he longed to enter, but one he 

could not join. 

"He's crazy," people in town would whisper 

about Vincent whenever he passed them in the 

streets. They could not see the monster that 

followed Vincent around. "He's insane," they 

would insist, "and he sees the world so 

strangely." 

Vincent Van Gogh saw the world differently 

than other people and he would paint the 

world as he saw it, not as other people did. 

There was one other thing that Vincent could 

see that no one else could. Or rather, that only 

he could hear. 

There lived a monster in the village that only 

Vincent could hear. No one else could hear it, 

and no one else could see it. Vincent knew that 

it was there. It would follow him when he set 

up his easel to paint sunflowers, telling him he 

would never be good enough. 

The monster would whisper to Vincent that he 

was a failure, that his paintings were worthless 

and so was he. Vincent would lose all interest 

in painting. His easel would remain untouched 

and he would want to stay in bed, curled up, 

away from the world. As much as he tried to 

fight it, the monster would continue to lie to 

him.

There were moments when Vincent would 

defeat the monster. When this happened, he 

would paint beautiful masterpieces, amazing 

works of art that people would be proud to 

hang in their homes. The monster would never 

stay gone, though. 

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